My Mother, The Monster

I gasped awake, my throat burning.

Downstairs, Mom shrieked at Dad about 'Emily' again, their usual symphony of bitterness.

I was used to it, used to being Mom' s property, something she controlled, ever since she trapped Dad with a fake pregnancy years ago.

She never forgave him Emily, and she never forgave me for being his daughter.

But this morning, a chilling memory, vivid as real life, clung to me: peanuts, my throat closing, Mom just watching.

A taste of death.

It wasn't a dream.

It was a premonition, my own death at her hands, if I didn't act.

The thought alone sent shivers down my spine.

This wasn't just a difficult mother; I saw her clearly for the first time: a monster.

My heart hammered, a desperate drumbeat, as every sugary word, every controlling glance, every public humiliation she inflicted felt like a suffocating vice.

Dad, weak and defeated, could only offer whispered apologies, seeing my suffering but perpetually helpless.

I wouldn't be her victim anymore.

I wouldn't end up on that kitchen floor, struggling for breath while she calmly watched.

Not this time.

My resolve hardened into something cold and sharp, a desperate decision: I had to get out, and I had to take Dad with me.

The world swam back into focus with a gasp. My throat felt tight, a phantom itch.

I was on my bed, the flowered comforter bunched around me.

Sunlight, too bright, sliced through the curtains.

Then I heard them. Voices, sharp and angry, from downstairs. Mom and Dad.

"You never loved me, David! It was always her, always Emily!" Mom' s voice was a shriek.

A dull ache throbbed in my temples. Emily. Mom' s sister. Dad' s old love. The ghost in our house.

A memory, so vivid it felt real, clung to me: peanuts, my throat closing, Mom watching. A taste of death.

It wasn' t a dream. It was a warning. A premonition.

My heart hammered. This time, things would be different. I wouldn't let her.

Mom had married Dad by trapping him, years ago, when he was heartbroken over Emily leaving town. She'd told him she was pregnant. A lie, I found out later from a stray comment Dad made when he was drunk one Thanksgiving.

She never forgave him for Emily. She never forgave me for being his daughter.

I was just something she owned, something to control.

Now, with that premonition burning in my mind, I saw her clearly for the first time. Not just a difficult mother. A monster.

My resolve hardened into something cold and sharp. I had to get out. And I had to take Dad with me.

The immediate fight was college.

"Sarah, we've discussed this. Oceanview Community is a fine school. And you'll be close to home," Mom said later that day, her voice syrupy sweet, a tone that always set my teeth on edge.

She wanted me nearby, under her thumb. Always.

"Okay, Mom," I said, my voice carefully neutral.

She beamed, a conqueror' s smile.

Dad looked at me, a flicker of something – worry? hope? – in his tired eyes. He ran a hand through his thinning hair.

"That's good, Sarah," he said quietly, avoiding Mom's gaze. He always avoided her gaze.

I knew he secretly wanted me to go to my dream school, the one out of state, the one with the great writing program. He'd even slipped me the brochure months ago, a silent encouragement.

I gave him a tiny, almost imperceptible nod when Mom wasn't looking.

My compliance was a mask. Inside, I was already planning.

My guidance counselor, Ms. Evans, was an ally. We' d talked about early decision for the out-of-state university. The application was already in. I just needed to switch my declared choice at the last minute.

And I started collecting. A small, easily hidden voice recorder. A couple of nanny cams, bought with saved allowance money.

Mom' s control was everywhere. She' d check my phone, read my emails if she could. My room wasn' t private; she' d go through my things, "tidying up," she' d call it.

Once, when I was fifteen, I' d tried to go to a summer camp two hours away. I' d saved up, filled out the forms.

Mom found out. She didn' t yell. She got quiet. Then, she called every single relative, crying about how I was abandoning her, how ungrateful I was. She told them I was "troubled."

Aunt Carol called me, then Uncle Mike. They told me to be a good daughter.

The shame was suffocating. I stayed home. Mom had smiled, that same sweet, victorious smile.

That was then. This was now. The premonition had changed me. I wasn't just scared anymore. I was cold.

I felt overwhelmed, the thought of two more years, even at a community college, under her roof, her constant scrutiny.

"And I'll help you pick out your classes, honey," Mom said, her hand on my arm, a little too tight. "We can make sure you have a good schedule, nothing too stressful."

Her "solution" was always more control.

I pulled away, gently. "Thanks, Mom. I'll look at the catalog."

She frowned, a tiny crack in her perfect facade. "Don't be difficult, Sarah."

I didn't say anything. I just looked at her. For the first time, I didn't feel the urge to cry or shrink. I just felt... a strange, detached calm.

The fight was just beginning.

Mom' s campaign to make me the villain in our small family world started subtly.

"David, Sarah was so moody today," she' d say at dinner, loud enough for me to hear from the living room. "I'm just trying to help her with college, and she barely speaks."

Dad would mumble something noncommittal. He knew arguing was pointless.

The premonition of the allergic reaction, the feeling of my throat closing, it haunted my sleep. I' d wake up gasping, my heart pounding.

The stress was immense. I was jumpy, tired.

Mom noticed. "You look terrible, Sarah. Are you not sleeping? You need to take better care of yourself if you want to succeed at Oceanview."

Her concern was a weapon.

Dad would sometimes find me in the kitchen late at night, staring blankly at the wall.

"You okay, kiddo?" he'd ask, his voice low.

I'd just nod. I couldn't tell him about the premonition. He' d think I was losing my mind.

But his quiet presence was a comfort. He knew. He didn't know the details, but he knew I was suffering.

Mom' s control was relentless. She' d ask what I was doing, who I was talking to if I was on the phone, what I was reading.

She "needed" to drive me everywhere, even to the library, "just to make sure you're safe, dear."

I remembered Dad trying to stand up for me once, years ago. I wanted to join the school newspaper. Mom said it was a waste of time, filled with "weirdos."

"Susan, let her try," Dad had said, his voice surprisingly firm. "She's a good writer."

Mom had turned on him, her voice like ice. "Oh, so now you're taking her side against me? You always do. Just like you always preferred Emily."

The argument had raged for an hour. Mom had cried, accused him of not loving her, of undermining her.

Dad had eventually backed down, looking defeated. I didn't join the newspaper.

I felt trapped in a loop, her words a constant barrage.

"You're so ungrateful, Sarah. I do everything for you."

"If you really loved me, you wouldn't want to go far away for college."

"You're just like your father' s side of the family. So stubborn and selfish."

One evening, I tried again, a desperate plea. "Mom, please. I just want to visit the campus out of state. Just to see it."

She laughed. A short, sharp, dismissive sound. "Don't be ridiculous, Sarah. It's too expensive. And you wouldn't like it. It's too far. You belong here, with me."

Her certainty was absolute. Her world was the only one that mattered.

Dad was in the room. He shifted uncomfortably. "Susan, maybe just a visit wouldn't hurt..."

Mom whirled on him. "Are you insane, David? Whose idea was this? Hers or yours? You're encouraging her to leave me!"

Her voice rose, cracking. She grabbed a glass from the coffee table and hurled it at the fireplace. It shattered, spraying glass.

"I can't take this! You both hate me!" she screamed, tears streaming down her face.

I flinched, retreating into myself. Dad just stood there, his face pale, his hands clenched.

Mom stormed out of the room, sobbing.

The silence she left behind was heavy, broken only by the sound of my own ragged breathing.

Dad slowly bent down and started picking up the larger pieces of glass.

"I'm sorry, Sarah," he whispered, not looking at me.

I wasn't just documenting her words anymore. I was documenting her rage. The cameras were rolling.